


Keeping Time By The Highway Lines

by geckoholic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Banter, F/M, Friendship/Love, Matchmaker Natasha Romanov, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9216770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: “Do you really think she hasn't noticed?” Steve muses. Wouldn't be out of character for Natasha, at all, to have noticed months back and keep teasing him for the sheer fun it, and well, if there's anyone who'd be able to sell that prank with a straight face...With a sigh – contented and comfortable, and music to his ears – Maria shifts so she can burrow closer to him. “I don't think we've given her any indication to suspect us. And we are supposed to be spies, you know.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CamrynBarnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamrynBarnes/gifts).



> There wasn't much by the way of prompts for this one, so, idk, the fic is basically freestlye. Yay? XD
> 
> Beta-read by lustyjustice. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Souvenirs" by Robinson.

“I went up to up to HR yesterday,” Natasha says as she takes the field glasses from him. They’d been silent for a good while, which he’d so far rather enjoyed. Now he knows what’s coming. “They got a new girl. Tracy. Brunette, glasses, accurately ironed blouses, but also tattoos. The dichotomy sounds intriguing, don't you think?” 

Steve chooses not to inquire just how she found out about the girl's tattoos. Could be she'd just worn short sleeves and they’d peeked out, but it's January, and also, _Natasha_. He grunts a noncommittal hmmm and keeps his attention on the extensive glass front of the summer house. That's one of these things he doesn't get about twenty-first century evildoers. They have security in every little corner of their homes, signal-jamming on the whole estate, the house is registered in a fake name, and then it's basically all glass. Maybe be they're too sure, too full of themselves, assuming no one could get this far in the first place. Maybe they're being complacent. Or maybe they just value their architectural tastes over their privacy. He might never know. 

“Although I do understand if you don't want to date where you work.” Natasha's tone takes a turn towards thoughtful, and Steve, still not actually looking her way, gets some amusement out of imagining she's put a finger to her chin in thought. “That's sensitive. There's this girl in the coffee shop across the street from the main offices. Super cute – long blond hair, legs for days, always wearing flowery dresses – and she's smart. We've been chatting every other morning.” 

Steve has to bite down on a chuckle. He has, in fact, met that girl before. Her name is Courtney and she's very, very happy with her girlfriend, who just moved here from California so the two of them could be together. But that’s not the only thing that nearly has him bubbling over with laughter, and only steadfast control his military training gave him keeps it in.

“Trust me,” he says, motioning for Natasha to give the glasses back. “The prospect of a workplace romance isn't the problem.” 

 

***

 

When he comes home that evening, there's music playing softly in the background – jazz, one of the CDs she got him a few weeks ago, unwrapped, just placed on coffee table one evening – and the smell of Mexican takeout food wafts into the hallway. 

He finds Maria on the couch, legs folded underneath herself, in a set of standard SHIELD-issue t-shirt and sweatpants way too large for her frame. She must have changed here, left her own clothes in the bedroom and grabbed something from his wardrobe. Her shoes are right there, next to basically all of his – sneakers and dress shoes and casual leather bucks, one pair of each. He toes off his boots and places them in line. 

He pads into the living room area on socked feet. “Natasha's suggestions have now been extended to include the local waitstaff.” 

Maria cranes her head to follow his path towards the couch, and pulls her legs in further when he makes to sit down next to her. He places a hand on her thigh and luxuriates in her complete non-reaction. No flinch or glare, no comment on how she doesn't have much use for cuddling or sappy displays of affection. They've come a long way. 

“Do you really think she hasn't noticed?” Steve muses. Wouldn't be out of character for Natasha to have noticed months ago and kept teasing him for the sheer fun it, and if there's anyone who'd be able to sell that prank with a straight face... 

With a sigh – contented and comfortable and music to his ears – Maria shifts so she can burrow closer to him. “I don't think we've given her any indication to suspect us. And we are supposed to be spies, you know.” 

“You're a spy,” he corrects. “I am – “ 

“Yeah,” Maria interrupts, rolling her eyes. “So you keep saying.” She nods towards the kitchen, and when he follows her line of sight he sees the bag whose contents are permeating the whole apartment with the delicious smell of spicy, greasy food. 

He grins back and nudges her, then gives her thigh a gentle squeeze – just because he can, because she'll let him, and because he still can't believe it sometimes – and then gets up to help himself to a second dinner. 

 

***

 

Headquarters is not Natasha's favorite place. Steve can tell by the way she squints at the sleek black furniture that so unsubtly screams _government agency_ and glares challengingly at every suit that walks past, all while popping bubble gum. He doesn't dare presume he's ever seen the real Natasha Romanov, but silently he hopes she's at least a little like this version, which he has dubbed _petulant teenager who knows she's pretty and can get away with anything_. 

Once they've reached the elevator, however, the exaggerated mannerisms fall away. She straightens and spits the gum into the trash on their way in. Her expression smooths out a little, although it remains mischievous. Uh-oh. 

“We could swing by HR on our way back,” she suggests sweetly, watching his face for a reaction. “See if Tracy's in today.” 

Steve inhales. “I'd rather not.” 

Natasha cocks her head at him. “You know, if you're into guys or something, you could just tell me so I can switch gears. It'd only be fair. I'm really trying here.” 

“It's not like that,” Steve says, biting the inside of his cheek a little to keep a neutral expression. 

He doesn't mind the insinuation in the slightest; he grew up in the kind of neighborhood where people kept their secrets, but weren't ashamed of them, and he'd seen his fair share of boys out with one another. They were about as interested in him as the girls he met so he never did anything, but... yeah he really doesn't mind. 

Natasha's eyes narrow further, and her entire expression reminds him of a scientist on the brink of discovery. She almost has it, but not quite. She doesn't have all the information she'd need for the correct assumptions. And Steve doesn't intend to give them to her anytime soon. 

The elevator doors ping, and he marches out ahead of her, whistling a little. She glares at him for exactly as long as it takes to run into another flock of SHIELD office staff, and then she digs a new slice of gum out of her jacket pocket and resumes being obnoxious. 

 

*** 

 

Most days, the newly formed Avengers initiative doesn't exist in much more than writing. They all fought together once and that worked out well, but they still all have – or got assigned – regular day jobs. Well. Regular in the framework of SHIELD, anyway. 

And then there are the days when Stark remembers that he's got a team, and insists on spoiling them. Which, in his case, means parties. Expensive, exclusive, vibrant parties. He doesn't seem to have worked out yet that said team largely doesn't consist of esteemed party animals such as himself, but it's not like Steve expects too much interpersonal sensitivity from someone who grew up as Howard Stark's son. 

But his mother raised a gentleman, and so when he gets an invitation and doesn't have a good, pressing excuse to decline, he goes. Besides, they saved the world together. They may have to do that again. And if the Howlies taught him anything, it’s that the bonds forged with the people you stick your neck out for in the trenches can turn into something quite interesting when you drench them in alcohol.

All things considered, he still doesn’t like tuxedos. Or ties, for that matter. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in Maria's apartment, he frowns at his own reflection and the crumbled piece of fabric hanging from his neck that steadfastly refuses to let itself be knotted into something presentable. 

Maria, for her part, has been watching his struggles from her perch on the bed for the past ten minutes. He'd complain, but the increasingly amused quirk to her lips he'd caught through the mirror or while glaring at her over his shoulder has been well worth the price of admission. 

“It's good to know there are still some things Captain America is really, really awful at,” she finally remarks. Her expression softens into something fond and gentle, and she pushes herself off the bed and walks over. 

“Plenty of things,” he says. She motions for the tie, and he gladly hands it over, raising his chin when she prompts him. He shivers a little when her fingers brush his skin, inevitable while she ties a quick, elegant knot like there's no secret to it whatsoever. 

Then she's stepping back, schooling her features into a stern, professional expression that's underlined with just the hint of a smile. “You better get home. The limousine will pick you up at your place in half an hour, and I need to get ready too.”

Steve doesn't question why they can't just go together, doesn't bemoan the fact that he won't be able to get her drinks, to dance with her or exchange quick, reassuring glances while they're both engaged in polite and hellishly boring small talk. He knew her terms from the start, and he's not about to disrespect her by whining about them after the fact. 

But he does make the goodbye kiss last just a little too long, get a little too heated, until he's reasonably sure she'll be looking forward to the afterparty, back here, just as much as he does. 

 

*** 

 

All in all, the company he gets to officially seek out at the party isn't so bad. Stark flits around the room and doesn't get more than two consecutive sentences in with anyone, but Miss Potts turns out to be an excellent conversation partner – whenever she's not snatched away in her boyfriend's wake, that is. Banner doesn't talk much, but he listens politely to whatever anyone else has to say. Natasha and Clint are entertaining on their own, and hilarious when they combine forces. 

Steve makes a mental note to ask Clint, at some point, how you rein in Natasha's matchmaking efforts. She's still pointing out women in room – and a few men, now, either because of or in spite of their elevator conversation. She doesn't do the same thing to Clint, although he's flying as a bachelor too. There has to be some sort of secret there. 

Every so often, when everyone’s attention is engaged elsewhere, Steve allows himself to glance at Maria. He’s pretty sure She notices most of them but she rarely glances back. 

That’s why he's all the more surprised when, a little while later, she materializes next to him on the balcony, where he'd wandered off to catch some fresh air and a few minutes on his own. 

“Everything alright, Captain?” she asks, voice all business, carefully detached. Which makes sense; someone might still be in earshot. But her smile, warm and a little conspiratorial, that's for him. 

She closes the swing door, quickly, in a movement that would look accidental from the inside, and then walks over to him. With a nod of her head, she signals for him to move, and he slides along the wall until she nods again, this time in confirmation. His surprise deepens when she steps into his space, in one swift, long move, and kisses him. 

“What – “ he starts. 

Drawing back just a tiny bit, she fixes him with her gaze. That smile is still playing around her lips, and for people who don't know her as well, haven't learned to read her, it would probably seem detached. He knows better, sees the contentment in it, the rare happiness. 

“Camera blind spot,” Maria says, pointing to the ceiling. “May I remind you that one of us _is_ a spy and wouldn't march into any building without scouting it beforehand?” 

And he maybe he should compliment her on that, but she's wearing a halter neck dress that's clinging to her like a second skin and he's been dying to get his hands on her all evening and now she's _right here_. He opts to wrap his arms around her instead, lifting her up a little, and kissing her some more. 

That's when the swing door flies open. 

Maria rushes back from him like she's been burned, and he feels the loss like a bucket of ice water to the head. The air out here is suddenly colder; she leaves an emptiness in her wake that's almost psychical. It takes him a moment to tear his gaze away from her shocked face and direct it towards their intruder. 

The expression on Natasha's face is evenly divided between confusion and sheer, outright glee. 

“Well,” she says, sauntering over. “You really don't seem to mind a little workplace romance.” 

Maria's eyes narrow. “That door was locked.” 

“Oh please.” Natasha waves a hand. “During a party like this? I practically consider that an engraved invitation. The most interesting things always happen behind closed doors.” She looks between them again and something about the picture they're making changes her demeanor. The expression on her face turns almost gentle. Her voice is much softer when she speaks again. “Nothing half as scandalous as I was expecting going on here, though.” 

In response to the change in tone, Maria relaxes, stepping in a bit closer to him again. “So you won't say anything?” 

“No,” says Natasha, shrugging her shoulders. “It's none of my business, and I just so happen to be very good at keeping secrets.” Then her face lights up, and she smirks. “But I'm glad you found someone, Rogers. And you didn't even need my help.” 

Without waiting for a reply, she winks, turns, disappears back inside as quickly and soundlessly as she came. Her silhouette hovers in front of the door, doesn't move away even after the telltale click of the door locking. 

“Well,” he says into the silence, reaching for Maria's hand and twining their fingers. “At least now she'll lay off the matchmaking, so I guess there's one good thing to come out of this party.” 

Maria cocks her head while she lets herself be drawn to his side, fitting against him like she was never meant to be anywhere else. She spreads her palm against the thin fabric of his dress shirt, fingers angled so she can wriggle them in between the buttons, touch his skin. The turn of her mouth is as close to a smirk as he's ever seen it when she looks up and meets his eyes. 

“Just one thing?” she asks, and when he raises an eyebrow in question, she undoes the first button within reach. “If I know Romanov at all, she won't move away from that door until one of us goes back inside.” 

It takes him a second to process the implication behind that, and by that point Maria's already kissing him again, rendering his higher brain functions expendable anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


End file.
